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Arleccino_Occhi
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Name: Kyle
Birthday: 4/16/1984
Gender: Male
Interests: I like...Guitar, Songwriting, Poetry, Running, Reading too many Job Commentaries, Peanut Butter and Honey sandwiches on WhiteWheat, Swing Dancing, Sketching, Stargazing, Rock-Skipping, Introspection, Coffee Houses, LOUD music, quiet music, etc. But that's nothing, what I really REALLY like is
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Expertise: Lol. N/A
Message: message me
Member Since:
8/19/2005
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| I WILL find a way to put these in a book:
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room temperature hamburger meat.
It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.
Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law, Phil. But, unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.
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| I think that every story we've ever enjoyed is a type of the redemption drama.
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| Driving through the waxing cold
of a late autumn country road,
I look up at the starry sky
And see the abiding vigil-lights.
Their ancient beacons ever fixed
And storied by each passing age;
Stars have seen a thousand Springs;
The flourishing herb and its wilting.
And what am I, if not like trees
Who give oblation with their leaves
When fates' measured span of time
Begs Winter claim her right?
Just like these, which stars shall see
Decline and fall to their humble roots,
So I and all my works will fade
and mingle with the soil and shade.
And these stolid suns shining
Will view the budding of a Spring
From amaranthine galleries
that never see the season change.
I am a man driving through
a late autumn country road;
now I grace the asphalt stage,
an audience of stars array'd,
but soon I will be gone.
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| Flitting sparrows in their rustling hunt;
Their search begs me to think;
If these ones worry not, then why me?
If, though precious,
Greater care
Be spent on my head than on these?
Noble flowers in tyrian purple,
Thriving in their given soil;
If these have all they need, will not I?
Delicate blossoms delight his eye,
Yet not for florid matter,
But for flesh he died.
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| This week I learned a great little thing. It took a lot of work for the lesson to hit home--a lot of pain and stubbornness and banging my head against the wall—but I finally learned it. I learned that God is God.
Yeah, I was awestruck at the realization, too.
I’ll forget it next week. Maybe I have already had a hundred “next weeks”, and this realization is just the setup for the next time I forget that God is God. But it doesn’t make the discovery any less beautiful now.
Winning the lottery couldn’t feel any better. Or falling in love.
Because I just realized that I was dangling over a roaring maelstrom, but I won’t drop. I realized that even though I have every reason to feel insecure, that’s the VERY reason I know I must be secure.
Jesus is a physician for sick people, not for healthy people. And God is a balance for people who don’t have their lives together, not for people who know what’s coming over the next 50 years of their lives. These two things blow me away. They are like watching fireworks with the eyes of my heart, and feeling every explosion sound in my chest again and again as the bursting realization of STABILITY sends its flashing glimmers over my gloomy mind and enlightens with hope everything that was just dark.
Jesus showers compassion on sinners, which is good for me, because that’s all I’m ever going to be. I need that compassion. I can only meet God with empty hands and a needy soul. That’s the only way anyone can approach God. Because that’s the only way anyone really is.
And here’s the other thing about God being God: when you’re his, you can say, “Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.” Why should I fret? Why should I ever feel anxiety over finding a job or finding a house or finding my ultimate purpose in life? Isn’t God the lord of my life? Well if that means anything at all, doesn’t it mean that he’s got these paltry questions accounted for already?
Well then maybe I should actually trust him. What a brilliant thought.
How can I fret about food when I have Christ, “apart from whom I have no good thing”? How can I spend my hours worrying about the path of my future when he has already “made known to me the path of life” and has filled me with joy in his presence? Is eternity so much less important than 50 years? It isn’t, and that’s why you should feel secure right now, too.
Thank you, God, for holding me in the palm of your hand. Thank you that I never need to be anxious about anything, because you give me everything I need. And thank you for giving me yourself, because you are better bread and better wine than anything that can be bought with cash.
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